Deliver You Home
by dancemagictv
Summary: Brock becomes seriously ill on a mission and is in desperate need of medical attention. Unfortunately, the nearest hospital is more than a day's hike back the way they came.
1. Chapter 1

**Just some straightforward, old-fashioned sick whump. Sorry Brock!**  
**Part two coming soon.**

* * *

Sometimes Brock feels like he's invisible.

Not literally, of course, and not all the time. But every now and then, he wonders if anyone would notice if he just disappeared.

He feels it the most when Bravo's on a mission that doesn't require Cerberus.

He knows he's a talented canine handler, and that's something he's immensely proud of. His well-developed partnership with his military working dog has saved Bravo's collective ass more times than he can count, and he knows how valued that is among his team and command.

But without the dog present, Brock starts to feels like he isn't as important, not as necessary to the dynamic of the team. Jason's the leader, Ray and Clay are the precision shooters, Sonny's the muscle, Trent's the medic, and Brock's just…Brock.

It makes him wonder if he carries a fair share of the team's weight. If the guys think less of him somehow.

In his head, Brock knows Jason wouldn't accept it if he was underperforming. Bravo 1 expects excellence from all of them, and he certainly doesn't hesitate to call them out if they aren't meeting those expectations.

But away from his head – deeper inside where long-held insecurities run rampant and set butterfly wings loose in his stomach – Brock doubts his ability. He watches these men work together like a well-oiled machine and he wonders if he's really a valuable part of that.

Is he as important to the rest of the team as Ray? Or Trent?

Or even Spenser?

The rookie joined Bravo _after_ him – crashing into their lives with ego and drive and seemingly unlimited confidence – and it didn't take long to realize he was the shiny new penny who Jason was enamored with, far more than he ever had been with Brock.

That's fine. Brock doesn't have a desire to lead his own team someday like Spenser does. He simply wants to do his job and he wants to do it well, making a difference along the way.

But that doesn't mean it smarts any less when it's Clay who Jason looks at with that twinkle in his eye.

Brock has to wonder – if he was replaced by someone else, would much of anything change for the rest of the team?

The personalities on Bravo can be overwhelming. The guys rib him for being quiet, but he doesn't think he really is. He wouldn't consider himself to be shy, or socially awkward or anything like that. He just generally doesn't feel the need to speak unless he has a real reason. And he doesn't have the drive to dominate the conversation like some of the other guys do.

So sure, he may be quieter than the rest of the team but that's because they yammer incessantly and it's hard to get a word in edgewise.

But one on one, Brock knows he can talk your ear off. And away from the larger group dynamic he has a close, personal relationship with every single one of them. He's only known these men for a few years – Spenser even less – but there's no one else in his life he's grown closer to in such a short period of time. They're truly his best friends.

He knows he's more of an observer, and he tells himself that's okay. That it's actually one of his greatest strengths. It gives him a good understanding of the dynamic of his team. He knows intuitively when it's safe to tease Sonny and when he should steer clear. Or when Clay needs a bit of an ego boost. He can tell when Jason is going to push them hard and he should probably grab an extra few hours of sleep if he can.

And he can read them all well enough by now to know that this current mission is going to absolutely _suck_.

That's too bad because he's actually excited for it. They're deep in the jungle of Brazil and it's the first time Brock's been in the actual Amazon rainforest, which is pretty high on his bucket list.

It's a very simple reconnaissance mission – travel on foot to a drug cartel's remote encampment deep under the canopy without being noticed and collect intel on the cocaine operation that's sprung up in the area. The drug money is being used for nefarious purposes that have international implications and, really, what else is new?

Jason's pissed about the whole thing, rightly annoyed that they've even been given the job at all. A low-level op like this could have been given to any team and certainly didn't need to be reserved for a team like Bravo. Or DEVGRU at all. It's a waste of their skills and ability, and there's almost zero chance of conflict.

But when powerful and corrupt government leaders insist on the 'best' so they can get reelected, Bravo team sometimes gets called in whether it makes sense or not. That's politics.

Despite the drama, and the lack of a real challenge, Brock likes this kind of mission.

It's gonna take a good two days to get there and the same to get back, all on foot, and Brock's looking forward to it. Sonny may whine his whole way through, but Brock appreciates the strain he feels in his aching muscles and the hard-won sense of accomplishment when they've achieved their task. He'd take the jungle over the desert any day. He enjoys the constant hum of the birds and insects on the air – life vibrant and bold all around him. It's like he's caught up in a storybook from his childhood – off on an adventure through the wilderness.

#####

Day one goes according to plan and they make good time. There's no one else around for miles and miles. No villages or outposts. Just endless wilderness. They're completely cut off from any of their support team and won't actually talk to them until they get back. That means things are pretty quiet. They chat some, but mostly the aura is kind of depressed.

Jason hasn't been able to clear his sour mood and it's seeping down through their ranks.

Ray and Clay can't seem to let go of a squabble over a missed shot from their previous mission – continuing to snip at each other over their calculations.

And Sonny's exactly what Sonny always is in a situation like this – phobic and grouchy and downright annoying.

Trent's the only one who seems to be his normal self. The man has the patience of a saint, always seeming completely unruffled by whatever screwed up team dynamic is percolating around him.

Brock puts his head down and walks, trying to enjoy what he can of the hike.

#####

When they wake on the second day, Brock feels a bit off. He has a heavy feeling in the middle of his belly that he has a vague sense kept him awake more than it should have during the night. It's left him groggy and tired, but it's nothing to be concerned about so he doesn't think too much of it. They eat quickly, get packed up and set off.

It's apparent pretty quickly that day two is going to be a repeat of day one, with Ray and Clay getting into an argument before they even make it a mile away from the campsite.

Brock tries not to let it dampen his mood, but it's starting to grate on his nerves.

A few hours in, that heavy feeling in his stomach starts to shift into a gnawing, aching pain. If they hadn't all eaten MREs the night before he would think it might be the start of food poisoning. But it isn't severe, so he doesn't worry about it – figuring it will sort itself out as they move along. Walking has a way of doing that.

Being uncomfortable on a mission is nothing new. It's pretty par for the course, actually. Almost everything they do is unpleasant in some way – they're either wet, cold, hot, cramped, hungry, smelly, sore or exhausted. A big part of their training is to learn to not let those sensations affect the objective, and it's the operators who are able to do that who are the most successful. It's second nature to just push through, so that's what Brock does without a second thought.

The nausea starts to creep in when the sun is highest in the sky, peaking through the thick layer of trees above them. Birds caw overhead as the team hikes beside a lightly bubbling river completely overrun by green. It's gradual enough that he doesn't think too much about it until he suddenly feels the telltale lump in his throat, mouth watering to foretell the sickness that's coming.

He barely has enough time to step out of line before vomiting into the brush.

"Whoa, buddy!" Sonny exclaims, jumping back as if he's been personally attacked. "Warn a guy!"

"Sorry," Brock spits the bile from his mouth, grabbing his straw to clear the awful taste as he straightens back up.

"Hey, you okay?" Jason asks, from where he's stopped their progress.

"Just don't feel great," he says. "Maybe a bug or something. Been going on all day. Shitty timing, but I'm good."

"You sure?" Trent's asks, stepping forward.

"Yeah," Brock confirms, sure he'll be fine now that he's cleared his stomach.

Trent accepts the answer, tells him to keep hydrated, and they keep moving.

It happens again about an hour later. This time he feels it coming and is able to spare Sonny the horror of watching.

Trent appears at his side as he works to catch his breath.

Brock raises an eyebrow at him, silently pleading with his friend not to make a big deal out of it. Being sick in front of everyone is embarrassing enough already. He doesn't need Trent mother-henning him to death.

"Have you been bitten by anything? Stung?" Trent asks dutifully. "Snake, frog, bug, anything like that?"

"Don't think so," he shrugs.

"Okay, let me know if anything changes."

And they set out again.

Normally, clearing his stomach would help to alleviate nausea, but it doesn't. Instead, it continues to grow, and by the time late afternoon comes around, the discomfort has strengthened and moved to his lower side instead of the middle of his belly. And the pains have developed from cramps to shooting daggers.

He's sweaty. He feels the moisture sticky on the back of his neck and dripping down his face. He assumes that's probably true of all of them given that they've been hiking for hours on end, but this is a different kind of sweat. The kind that makes you clammy. Hot and cold at the same time.

When he retches miserably for the third time, barely anything left to bring up now, Jason calls for a break.

"Okay, let's take 10," he directs. "Trent?"

Through the rushing of his ears and the itchy heat behind his eyebrows, Brock can hear the barely hidden annoyance in Bravo 1's tone.

He shakily straightens up again, weakness starting to plant itself deep inside his bones. Trent's hand comes to rest on his forehead and he reaches to swat it away. It's humiliating enough holding everyone up like this. He doesn't need to look like a kid in the process.

"You're warm. Is it getting worse?"

"Yeah," he admits, hand shifting to his side. "Lower now too."

Trent stares at him a moment too long, eyes shifting to look down to where Brock's hand is resting, and Brock can see the wheels turning.

"Lower everywhere or only on the right?" he asks.

"Everywhere hurts, but yeah, mostly the right. Like I'm being stabbed."

Trent looks down again, like if he stares hard enough he'll be able to see right through Brock. When he finally lifts his eyes, he's biting his lip.

"You still have your appendix, right?"

A swooping sensation surges through Brock's body and it's like the ground falls out from beneath him. He feels heat flood his face as everyone's eyes land on him.

"Yeah," he says slowly.

Trent closes his eyes and bows his head in the silence that follows.

"You've gotta be shitting me," Clay breaks the quiet. "His appendix? Now? We're a day and a half into the jungle."

Trent shoots the kid a look, but otherwise ignores him, focusing on his patient instead. "Lie down. On your back."

Brock reluctantly pulls his pack off, shivering when the heavy warm breeze meets the damp material of his shirt. He gently lowers himself to the ground, feeling self-conscious with all of them standing there waiting on him.

They need to keep moving.

Trent lowers to his knees in the dirt next to him and starts gently feeling around his belly. Brock can't suppress a sharp gasp when Trent let's go of the area that's the most painful. Agony sears through him and his legs instinctively pull up to protect the tender spot.

"Damn it," Trent sighs quietly.

"It's his appendix?" Ray asks.

Through the stars that are obscuring his vision from the intense burst of pain, Brock sees Trent nod.

"How do you know?" Sonny asks "Couldn't it be anything? The flu? Maybe he just needs to take a shit."

"Look, I barely know fuck all about appendicitis," Trent says. "This isn't exactly my area of expertise. But I do know that if it hurts more when you release the pressure there's a good chance that's what it is. The other symptoms fit too."

Brock continues to lie quietly, heart beating wildly, and unsure of what to say.

"So what do we do?" Jason finally asks.

Trent pauses for only a moment before he says firmly, "We need to turn back."

And that knocks Brock out of his stupor. There's _no way_ he's going to be responsible for the failure of a mission.

"What? No, I can handle it," he says, sitting up with a groan. "It's not _that_ bad. Let's finish the op and then I'll get it taken care of when we get back."

"Not happening," Trent insists with a shake of his head, but it just sounds patronizing. Like he's talking down to a child who doesn't know his place.

"Come on, appendicitis isn't that big of a deal," Brock insists desperately. "I know plenty of people who have had it."

It's true. His sister had it as a kid and one of the guys he was in Green Team with. They both turned out just fine. It's perfectly normal.

"Sure, it isn't a big deal when you have it promptly removed," Trent shoots back, a dead-serious, no-nonsense tone to his voice now. "We don't have that option. It's gonna get worse, Brock, not better. And once it ruptures – and it will eventually – that's life threatening. We can't let it happen when we're two days away from help."

"We can't just scrap the op," Brock says insistently. It feels like walls are closing in on him. This can't be happening.

"Should we split up?" Ray cuts in. "Three go back, three continue? It's not exactly the kind of mission that would require all of us."

Trent's shaking his head immediately. "He's not gonna be able to walk if it gets really bad. I think we all need to go back."

The implication is clear, and Brock wants to bury himself in a hole at the thought of his brothers possibly needing to carry him.

"This is ridiculous," he tries one last time, but he knows it's an argument he's not going to win. "We can't just go back. Jace, you already caused too much of a fuss with this one. They'll be so pissed if we come back empty-handed."

"That's my problem," his boss replies. "Not yours. Let's go."

The look in Jason's eyes tells him he doesn't have a choice. It's not up to him and there's no use arguing.

Brock accepts Trent's help to rise to his feet, and he clenches his eyes tightly shut as the movement leaves him swaying a bit.

"Okay, acetaminophen for the fever and antibiotics to start to head off the infection," Trent says, digging through his med bag. "Then we're heading back. Clay, Sonny, can you carry his things? The less weight on him the better, and we need to move quickly. Continuing through the night if we can."

Sonny steps forward without question to pick up Brock's discarded pack and Clay takes his rifle and bag with a gentle pat to the shoulder and a quiet, "All good, man."

Brock tries to refuse the antibiotics. They're part of Trent's supplies any time the team is in a location like a jungle – where a simple cut can become infected pretty quickly. But that doesn't mean they have a lot of them, and they have a good 30-hour trip left where anything could happen to any one of them.

But Trent insists, going on about antibiotics at higher strengths sometimes being used independently to treat appendicitis nowadays, and what he says goes. Brock knows it's another argument he isn't going to win.

By the time they're packed up and ready to head out again, Brock's begrudgingly accepted that there's nothing he can do to change this. But that acceptance makes him feel just as bad as the pain that's steadily increasing within him. For the first time since he joined Bravo, he truly feels like he let the team down.

"Hey," Jason says gently, pulling him aside quietly. "I know you're beating yourself up in there. _Stop_. You're more important, okay?"

There's something in his team leader's stare that's too intense. He looks worried. Brock looks away, in the direction they're _supposed_ to be moving.

"Brock," Jason insists, waiting for him to turn back to look at him again. "It's not even a question. Screw the op. We didn't want to do it anyway. You come first. Always."

#####

Things get worse quickly over the next couple hours.

Brock can admit, at least to himself, that he's relieved the decision was taken from him. As each moment goes by, he feels incrementally worse. Each step is like a shock zapping through his body and he starts to wonder for the first time what's going to happen. How he's possibly going to make it all the way back if things just keep deteriorating.

He tries not to think about how far they have to go, instead putting every ounce of his focus into each step.

One foot in front of the other.

"We're gonna get you home," he hears Trent say from where he's following closely behind. "I promise."


	2. Chapter 2

Every minute is a fresh, new agony.

It's an intensity of pain Brock has never felt before in his life. He's never been stabbed, but he knows this is what it would feel like. Except it keeps happening again and again – with every step and every breath he takes – like he's stuck in some kind of awful loop. It's a never-ending assault that won't let up, and the knowledge that it's only going to get worse is enough to make him feel like he's drowning.

So he refuses to let himself think about it. He's determined to do what he's trained to do - he pushes it away as best he can, and he keeps walking. He forces himself to zone out, letting the pain slowly drift to the background.

In its place, he fills his mind with memories – idyllic summers from his childhood, meeting his brothers for the first time, Cerberus as a puppy, all the adventures downrange doing what he loves.

Time seems to warp. It's an indefinite thing that just goes on, and he has no concept of how much of it has passed. It could be five minutes or it could be five hours. But the light forcing its way through the trees is dimming when Jason calls for a break.

As soon as he stops moving, the pain slams back into him full force. Brock hunches over next to a tree, bent protectively over his middle with his hands on his knees as he works to catch his breath. He's aware of movement around him, but his heartbeat is pounding like a drum in his temples, blood whooshing through his ears. All he can focus on is breathing and keeping his feet under him, grounding himself to the earth below.

Trent appears in his line of sight, crouched down in the dirt next to him. The medic's face is carefully controlled, but Brock knows him well enough to see the worry in his eyes that he can't fully conceal.

"Think you can eat something?" he asks quietly.

The very idea makes a lump climb into Brock's throat, and he's afraid he's going to be sick again just thinking about it.

He shakes his head, not able to put the effort into talking yet.

"Can you try?" Trent asks again, and he sounds a little desperate now.

Brock wants to. He does. He's always been a pleaser; a rule follower. If Trent is asking him to do something, that means it's important. And he knows he needs to keep his energy up. They have a long way to go, and things are likely to get worse.

But the thought of even trying to eat something seems like a mountain he's incapable of climbing.

The inner turmoil must show on his face, because Trent gives him a pat on the shoulder and says, "Okay, that's okay for now."

"I'm sorry," he says miserably as he forces himself to straighten back up to lean against the tree, only now noticing that everyone is gathered around him. "I don't -"

"No reason to be sorry," Trent interrupts with a soft smile. "We'll figure this out together."

"Would it be better to keep him still?" Ray asks. "Should he be moving like this? Couldn't that just make it worse?"

"I don't know," Trent answers bluntly, and Brock can hear the current of frustration in his voice. He gets the feeling his friend has already spent a lot of time pondering the same thing. And he can't remember a time he's ever heard Trent sound so unsure.

But he trusts the man with his life. He does every time they go out on a mission. They all do.

Even if he doesn't have the answers, Brock trusts Trent's instincts. And he knows he'll always make the call he thinks is best for his men.

And that means Brock will follow his lead without question.

"No," Trent finally says, with more conviction this time. "I think we just need to keep moving. It's gonna happen anyway. Even if the movement speeds it up, I think it's a worthy trade off. Carrying him would slow us down so much it would at least double our time. And that's too dangerous."

Brock looks down self-consciously, embarrassed that they're talking about him like he isn't right in front of them. Even through the pain, he still can't shake the guilt of the failed mission. Or the burden he's now putting on his team. And on Trent.

"Once we reach a clearer area we'll call in," Jason says. "See what medical suggests. Until then, we keep moving."

They have a satellite phone for emergencies, but here under the thick, dense covering of the jungle, their opportunities to use it are pretty slim.

Not much can be done anyway. They all know the only way out is on foot. They knew that coming in. They aren't near enough to a major river to have the advantage of a waterway, and there's no hope of a vehicle getting to them through the dense wilderness.

That leaves the air. But even if they were able to get a bird in somehow to pull him out, they can't. It would break the rules of engagement they agreed to for the op – no activity that can be spotted and no communications that may potentially be overheard or intercepted.

They're on their own.

And now, even surrounded by his brothers, Brock feels like he's completely alone.

Truthfully, that's kind of how it's been his whole life.

Brock's always been a little bit of an outsider, though outsider might not really be the right word. He's always just done what he enjoys, without the need to conform to what everyone else is doing, or what everyone else thinks he should do.

In high school, while all of his friends were playing football and soccer, Brock stuck to cross country and swimming. And despite the relentless teasing, he made it all the way to Eagle Scout when the rest of his peer group dropped out of scouting, distracted by girls and parties and high school drama.

But that independent streak makes it hard to connect to people sometimes; to let others in.

And as much as he loves his brothers on Bravo – and he knows they love him – sometimes Brock still feels like that kid who didn't quite fit in with the group. The one who's having a different experience than everyone else.

It makes him wonder what they're really thinking now. Whether he's more trouble than he's worth.

His relationships with these five men are the tightest he's ever had with anyone, possibly even his own family.

More than anything, he doesn't want to let them down.

"I can keep going," he says once he finally catches his breath, moving gingerly to sit on the rough bark of a fallen tree.

"Yeah, yeah, we all know you're faster than us, man," Sonny says dramatically, swatting at a fly buzzing past his ear. "No need to show off. We aren't all built like a gazelle."

His tone is annoyed, but Brock can see the gentleness in his gaze.

"Really, Trent," he insists. "I'm good. I can keep going."

"I know you can. We're counting on it. But I want you to have some more water first."

Brock tries to school his face to hide his grimace, because drinking is getting harder and harder. He forces a few sips down, and Trent looks satisfied, but it feels like he's swallowing past a boulder in his throat.

Everyone spreads out to quickly eat something and hydrate, and Brock leans back and closes his eyes. He breathes deeply while he focuses on the sounds around him – the light wind rustling through the leaves, the faint creaking of wood, the symphony of insects, birds and creatures all around them. And he takes in the smell – a mix of earthy, musty and fragrant.

Spending time in nature has always grounded Brock. It's where he feels the most alive. Like even though he's just one small, tiny speck, he's a vital part of an expansive, vast ecosystem. And being in the jungle is the pinnacle of that.

"You're gonna have a hell of a story to tell," Clay pulls him from his thoughts as he settles down on the log beside him.

"Oh, yeah," Brock scoffs, and the movement makes his breath catch. "Big, tough SEAL ruins an op because he gets sick. Quite the story."

"Stop that. You didn't ruin anything. Completely out of your control. Besides, it kind of fits you perfectly, right? Brock Reynolds - incapable of just getting a normal injury like anyone else. Had to come up with something original."

"Think I'd rather…get shot." He says through clenched teeth. "This sucks."

"Eh, getting shot's not all it's cracked up to be," Clay says with a laugh. "You'll probably end up with a cool scar anyway."

They sit in comfortable silence for a minute and Brock watches as Clay shreds a leaf between his fingers.

"You do know we don't care, right? About the op?" the younger man finally says quietly. "We just want you to be okay. Whatever we need to do to make that happen is worth it."

Brock's taken aback by the emotion evident in Clay's voice, and the fact that he isn't hiding it. Clay isn't exactly known for a bleeding heart – none of them are – and Brock isn't sure how to respond.

The silence lasts a beat too long, and Clay clears his throat before continuing.

"So stop worrying about it. Don't waste energy on any of that angst that's swirling around in your head. Just focus on walking, and doing whatever Trent tells you to do."

Brock nods.

"Hey," Clay nudges his shoulder, waiting until Brock looks at him to continue. "When you can't do it anymore, tell us. It isn't weakness, Brock. We all know you're a complete badass. You don't need to prove that to us."

Brock looks away, feeling his face flush. Clay sounds completely genuine, and it sends a flood of warmth through his chest.

Sitting around isn't giving him enough of a distraction from the growing pain, so Brock's grateful when they start moving again.

Night falls quickly, and it slows their progress. They continue to carefully follow the path they made on their way in, but even with their night vision they have to backtrack twice because they lose the trail.

Brock also knows it isn't safe. Without a fire for protection, he knows the darkness is exposing them to the threat of wildlife. The jungle is a very different place at night than it is during the day, and they're vulnerable in the dark. He wants to suggest they stop and set up camp until morning, but he can't bring himself to do it. No one complains, and remarkably, Sonny doesn't say a word.

Trent stays much closer to him now. Brock isn't sure whether it's because of the darkness or because he's afraid Brock will topple over at any second, but he's hyper-aware of the breathing and footsteps just behind him. It gives him a bit more confidence to push on, and he's more grateful than he could have imagined for the constant, steady presence.

Sonny launches into a rambling story somewhere behind him. It's not his usual complaining; this is something about his grandninny and Christmas and spiking the eggnog with his sisters. Brock isn't actually paying attention – too overwhelmed by the pain and his ongoing battle to block it out – but hearing the familiar drawl is comforting somehow.

They haven't been moving for very long – an hour, maybe two – when Brock realizes he isn't going to be able to regain the focus he had previously. It's like their break pulled him too far out of his head, and he can't fade out anymore. Or maybe the pain has just increased to a point where it's too all-consuming, demanding his complete attention. Either way, everything becomes harder – every step, every movement and every breath.

Before he even realizes what's happening, he's retching into the bushes again, losing what little water he was able to get down during their break. He hears a curse from Trent, followed by gentle words he can't clearly comprehend. A hand lands on his forehead while another gently grasps the pulse point in his wrist. He feels a firm grip steadying his elbow on the other side, and he's thankful for it as his head spins. He doesn't know if it's from the pain or just general weakness, but he has to take a minute to regain his equilibrium.

"Shouldn't…stop?" Ray's worried voice penetrates the fog that's rooted itself in his brain.

He hears the murmur of voices, but he isn't able to make out the words.

"I'm good," he forces out, and his own voice sounds too loud in his head. He ignores whatever conversation is being had around him and shakes loose from the hands that hold him tight. He starts walking and trusts Trent to fall back into place behind him.

He loses sense of time again.

The darkness is suffocating.

The sounds and smells that once brought him joy now only remind him of where he is – how much farther he has to go.

This place that he loves is starting to feel like a prison.

He's trapped, and he desperately wants to get out.

His entire existence becomes about the pain and fighting it so he can continue on. Every step gets him closer to a reprieve from the torment, and 100% of his energy is required to continue putting one foot in front of the other. To not give up and collapse where he stands.

Brock has always been blessed with athleticism. He can't really explain it, but his body just _works_. It does what he needs it to do, and it does it effortlessly. He has an innate ability to use his muscles and tendons and bones in complete sync to accomplish whatever he sets out to do. It's a big part of why he chose the career path he did.

Now it feels like his body is betraying him. Like this valuable tool has not only been taken away from him when he needs it most, but it's actively attacking him.

His mind if waging war with his body.

And his broken body is winning.


	3. Chapter 3

Trent is scared.

Give him bombs and bullets and blood and guts. He knows what to do with those. He knows how to triage a severed limb or a gunshot wound or a head injury.

This is so very different. And Trent feels like he's treading water, barely keeping himself afloat.

He's used to threats attacking them from the outside. That's what they're trained for – what they know how to handle.

But this is an enemy from within.

There's a ticking time bomb inside his friend. He can't see it and he can't fight it, and he knows with absolute certainty that it's going to go off.

That it's going to _win_.

After Brock throws up the little bit of water he's been able to get down for the second time, Trent resigns himself to the fact that he needs to stop drinking. It's clearly doing more harm than it is good at this point. That's tough to admit because he knows his friend is already dehydrated, and Trent only has one bag of fluids in his med kit.

He can tell the pain and discomfort are immense, but through it all, Brock never complains.

They all carry morphine, and as badly as Trent would like to give him some, he knows he can't. Brock needs to stay awake, aware and alert enough to continue on under his own power. He never asks Trent if he can have any. Hell, he has his own dose he could inject himself with at any time. But he doesn't, seeming to understand what the consequences could be.

He just keeps steadily walking on.

The few times someone tries to talk to him, Brock doesn't respond. Trent suspects he's zoned out, caught up somewhere in his head, or just fully focused on the effort necessary to continue hiking. If that's what it takes to keep them moving, he's not going to argue.

Like all of them, Brock has the ability to push past his mental and physical boundaries. And Trent knows he'll take every step he's physically capable of taking. Maybe more than he should.

Brock is walking in line behind Clay, and Trent notices that he follows every footstep the younger man makes exactly, boots connecting with the ground in the same spots, his stride completely in sync with Spenser's. It feels symbolic somehow. Brock is completely trusting Clay's steps to be sure and steady, just as he's trusting his team to get him to safety.

Trent's determined to do just that. He knows Jason, Ray, Sonny and Clay are too. As soon as they realized what was going on – how serious Brock's illness was – their objective changed immediately. Getting Brock to the help he so desperately needs became the new mission. There was never any question that they would drop anything to help him. The same as they would do for any one of them. Because they take care of each other. The team comes first.

Trent knows Brock is beating himself up over the aborted op. He probably would be too if their roles were reversed. But he also knows Brock's concern runs deeper than that. That he's self-conscious about his place within the team dynamic, and he lets those worries overwhelm him sometimes. That's nothing new. Brock has had that issue since he's been with the team, and Trent's starting to think they need to have a good talk when this is all over.

Trent's grown very close to their canine handler over the last couple years. That's partly because they're often naturally paired up - Jason and Ray are best friends, and Sonny and Clay have become very close, so that's left him and Brock. But mostly it's because their personalities complement each other well. They share similar interests and can spend hours talking about everything and nothing.

There are a lot of ways to describe Brock. He's passionate and loyal. Exceptionally intelligent and highly driven. A perceptive observer who knows more about what's going on in any situation than he ever lets on. Athletic and strong and determined. But he can also be goofy and awkward. Self-effacing and unassuming, but also self-conscious and doubting. He's surprisingly quick-witted and has a penchant for mischief-making, even though he's a tried and true rule follower when it comes to things that really matter.

But mostly, Brock's just a genuinely good person. There's no bravado to him, which can be hard to find in the operators working at their level. It isn't about ego or macho, alpha displays of strength or aggression. He's a man who has a pure and true love for what he does. He's trustworthy and steadfast, and Trent greatly values his friendship.

That's what makes his current predicament so heartbreaking. And Trent is determined to do everything he can to help him, even if that means making hard decisions he doesn't want to have to make. He owes him that.

#####

Deep in the middle of the night, something changes. Brock's pace slows – enough that Trent has to signal to Ray at the front of the line to slow things down. He can hear the younger man's heavy, labored breathing from where he's following closely behind.

For the first time, Brock's steps falter, and when he eventually stumbles, Trent is right there ready to catch him and prop him up. He pulls their NODs up and turns on his headlamp so he can get a good look at him. Brock's eyes are big and wild and slightly unfocused, darting around in the dark, and he reminds Trent of a caged animal.

In a sense, he supposes that's probably a fitting analogy. Brock's trapped in his body, probably in more pain than he's ever been. Add in the fever, dehydration, exertion and exhaustion, and Trent imagines he feels like he's lost all control. He's surprised he's even made it this far.

"Need to stop?" he asks, reaching to gauge his friend's temperature again.

He shakes his head no.

His skin definitely feels feverish, but not alarmingly so.

"Just can't block it out anymore," Brock says stoically, pulling in some small gasps. "Too much."

It's a statement of fact, not a complaint. And for some reason that irritates Trent. There's a part of him that wants Brock to scream and yell and be angry. That wants him to seek out sympathy and comfort from his brothers.

More than anything, Trent wants to call it over. He wants to dose Brock up with some morphine and let him be done. But as painful as it is to make him keep going, Trent knows he has to.

"Okay," he forces out with regret and an infusion of as much calm and confidence as he can manage. "Say something if you need to stop."

Brock nods jerkily and starts walking again.

Sonny grabs Trent's arm before he has a chance to fall into place behind him.

"_Please_," he begs, and there's an uneasy tremble to his voice. "Can't you give him something for the pain?"

"Not yet," Trent says firmly.

The guys know what's happening here. They understand what needs to be done. _Sonny knows_. As hard as it is, it's imperative that they all stay strong, encouraging Brock and offering him support but also making sure they continue to push him toward the objective. Brock needs them to be able to do that.

"He needs to keep moving for as long as he can," Trent emphasizes again. "It's the fastest way to get him out."

"But Trent, he's -"

"I know what he is!" he shoots back, the intense emotion and enormity of their situation momentarily superseding his forced calm. "What do you want me to do, Sonny? I hate it too. But every minute counts, and I'm trying to keep him _alive_. He understands that," he gestures to Brock ahead of them.

Trent knows at some point they'll likely need to carry him, but until then, the most important thing is speed. Pain has to come secondary to that. It's awful, and it physically makes him ache to force Brock through it, but it's crucial that they move as quickly as they can while they can. Regardless of how it makes them feel. Or how it makes Brock feel.

The Texan lets out a frustrated growl but capitulates, forcing a nod and scrubbing his hand over his face as he falls back to the end of the line.

Trent feels bad for snapping at Sonny. He understands the man's heightened concern because he feels it just as intensely, probably more. He doesn't even know for sure if he's making the right choices. If he's doing what's best for Brock. That uncertainty plants an uneasy, gnawing pit in his own belly.

He's unsettled by Brock's absolute trust in him, especially because he doesn't even know if he trusts himself. His friend has wholly shed any need for control of the decision making, instead following Trent's lead without question. He's willingly putting his life in his hands.

The weight of that responsibility in the midst of so many unknowns is nearly crushing.

#####

They don't make a significant stop again until the sun starts to make its way through the trees and the morning chorus of birdsong begins to fill the air. The light, airy tones feel contradictory to the dire urgency the team is facing.

Brock's stride has slowed nearly to a crawl, and Trent calls for the break just as Jason doubles back from farther up the line to check on them. Jason reaches for Brock's shoulder to steady him as he wavers, and it's like the small gesture strips away any self-consciousness the younger man was still capable of possessing. He immediately sinks into their team leader.

His forehead burrows into Jason's shoulder, the arch of his back painfully tense and rigid. His hand grips knuckle-white into Jason's sleeve, like if he let's go he'll be swept away by the unrelenting agony. He gasps for oxygen in small, harsh bursts, and Trent's afraid he's going to hyperventilate.

"Take a minute and just breathe," he says, stepping closer and putting all of his effort into maintaining a calm and soothing tone.

Brock whimpers, and it sends a dagger of pain through Trent's heart. He knows Brock has an enormously high threshold for pain, so to see him like this steals Trent's own breath away.

"Breathe through it," he instructs, gently resting his hand on Brock's back and leaning his head down so he's speaking into his ear.

The younger man hitches a few aborted gasps, forcing himself to smooth them out into complete inhalations. Trent feels him working hard to gain control and to climb above the pain.

"There you go, nice and steady," he says softly. "Try to fill yourself up with it."

"Hurts so much," Brock grits out, rolling his head to look at Trent. The suffering in his eyes is devastating, and Trent's throat tightens with the magnitude of it.

"I know. But you're doing so well," he forces out. "You're amazing."

Jason's hand comes up to rest in Brock's curls, trying to offer some comfort, and the older man's eyes look suspiciously wet.

The other guys don't look much better, their worry permeating the air. They're giving Brock space, but they're staying near.

"Okay, let's take a break for a bit," Trent decides. "I want to get some fluid into him."

He's betting on this being the right time to use it. He's hopeful that giving Brock the hydration will offer his body a boost. It's still too early for them to have to carry him. There's just too far to go.

Brock doesn't protest the break or the fluids, and that says more than any words possibly could about how he's feeling and how he sees his own situation.

Once they're settled, Brock curls up on his side and closes his eyes as Trent gets the IV set up. He can't seem to stay still, moving restlessly as his body fights the pain, eventually adopting a rhythmic, rocking motion.

He needs rest. Trent knows it. And he's faced with a decision he absolutely can't get wrong. Ultimately, he doesn't think he has much choice. Brock is barely able to move at this point. If he's able to get his strength up even slightly, the payoff should be there in the long run.

"I want you to rest for a bit," Trent says gently, once he's made up his mind. "So I'm gonna give you some morphine."

"But…" Brock questions, looking confused.

"Just for a little while, so you can get some strength back," he says, pulling the auto-injector from his pack. "Then we'll keep going."

Brock looks like he's going to argue but ultimately just nods, head sagging back down like he doesn't even have the energy to hold it up as Trent administers the drug.

It only takes a few minutes for Brock to drift into a fitful sleep, exhaustion and the opiate enough to briefly dampen the pain.

Trent sits and watches him, wondering if it was the right decision. Was it truly the best thing for Brock, or did he do it for his own comfort? So he could get a reprieve from seeing his close friend in such pain.

"You too," Jason pulls him from his self-doubt, lowering down next to him.

Trent raises a questioning eyebrow.

"You do the same," Jason clarifies. "Get some rest."

"I'm fine," Trent replies, shaking his head.

"I'm not asking," Jason says, eyes drilling into him. "You're the closest we have to someone who knows what the hell we should do here. I need you clearheaded. Try to get some sleep. I'll watch him."

Trent knows it's pointless to argue. And he does feel the exhaustion weighing him down. He's used to staying up for days at a time, but this is different. The emotional weight of what they're dealing with has left him feeling tired in an entirely new way.

He's asleep the moment he closes his eyes.

#####

"Trent?"

Ray's voice penetrates his troubled sleep, hand on his shoulder bringing him back to reality, and Trent is wide awake instantly. Based on the position of the sun through the trees he doesn't think he was out for more than a couple hours.

"It's Brock," Ray says, and Trent's heart drops into his stomach like a stone, the world tilting alarmingly around him. He's afraid to hear what's happened, and he's already beating himself up for falling asleep.

But when he turns to look at where he last left Brock sleeping, the younger man is sitting up. His face is flushed and he looks utterly exhausted, but the pain lines around his eyes have lessened some.

"It's not as bad now," Brock shrugs. "I feel a lot better."

"God bless the good drugs," Clay says with a small smile.

But Trent's heart thumps wildly in his chest. He's afraid it isn't that simple.

"What do you feel?" he makes himself ask.

"It still hurts, but the really sharp pain is mostly gone."

Trent clenches his eyes shut, and he can feel the color leave his own face.

"That's good, right?" Sonny asks, confused. "The morphine helped?"

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

Trent looks back over at Brock. He knows he wouldn't want him to sugarcoat things. He can't afford to anyway.

"Probably means it ruptured," he says, keeping eye contact. "Less pressure means less pain."

The news settles like a lead weight among the group, and Brock just stares back at him like his brain is struggling to make sense of things.

"So what does that mean?" Clay finally asks.

"It means bacteria is going to spread quickly. And infection along with it," Trent says, making himself speak directly to Brock. "Through your belly and eventually into your blood. We need to get to a hospital."

Brock pulls his eyes away, looking up to the towering vegetation above them. He takes several seconds to steel himself before nodding his head shakily.

"What's gonna happen?" he asks, without looking at any of them.

"The pain will probably increase again. The fever too. Before that happens, we need to cover as much ground as we can."

"Okay," he says resolutely, wiping his face. "I can do it. Let's go."

Ray and Clay are already helping him rise to his feet as Sonny moves to pack up his things.

Trent is filled with a new sense of urgency, even stronger than before. He knows Brock isn't going to keel over and die. It's going to take time for the infection to spread. But he also knows that every minute they're still out here the worse his situation is going to get. And his chances of a successful recovery go down. Taking too long to get him to help could absolutely kill him.

As they set off again, Brock moves far more quickly than he did previously.

Trent prays they'll be able to keep up the faster pace, because he knows they're running out of time.


	4. Chapter 4

**This probably should have been split into two chapters, but most of the second half was already done and I wanted to go ahead and get it finished up. I blame Brock and Trent for the length, because they insisted on having a lot of feelings.**

* * *

Brock's reprieve from the excruciating pain seems cruelly short.

They get several good hours in at a nice rate of speed before things take a turn. It feels like the decline happens remarkably quickly. One minute Brock's walking fast enough to almost be considered a jog and the next he wilts in front of them.

For the first time, Brock's the one who calls a halt. He steps out of line and leans against a tree, panting. His hand clutches to a low hanging branch, the other gripped tightly in his shirt.

"What's going on?" Trent asks as he reaches to gauge his temperature again, not surprised to find him burning up now.

"Head is spinning," Brock replies, bracing his back against the tree as he slides down to sit on the ground with a groan.

"Okay, take some time," Trent replies, joining him on the forest floor. He's concerned about how quickly things seem to be going downhill. He had begun to let himself hope that Brock's strength would hold out as long as it took to get them out, but that clearly isn't going to be the case.

"Thirsty."

That surprises Trent. Brock hasn't had interest in taking anything in by mouth since all of this started, and their attempts at having him drink haven't gone well so far. Since then, the most he's been able to do is moisten his mouth and then spit.

"Want to try?" Trent asks. He's not sure it can really hurt at this point. Brock's already severely dehydrated. And surgery is far enough away that his stomach will clear before they reach that point anyway. If he can manage to keep some fever reducers and antibiotics down, it should actually help.

Brock simply nods, and Trent decides to trust his friend and what he thinks his body needs. He lets him take a few sips and then cuts him off.

Brock sits quietly catching his breath, head resting against the tree behind him with his eyes closed. It offers Trent an opportunity to study him in a way Brock wouldn't normally tolerate. There's a furrow between his brows and the pain lines have returned to the area around his eyes. His mouth is shut but his lips are quivering faintly, like he's fighting off the chatter that wants to take over – whether from the pain or the fever, Trent's not sure. He's propping himself up with one hand in the dirt while the other rests protectively across his middle, fingers picking restlessly at the seam of his shirt. His right leg is pulled up, but the left rocks back and forth, stretched out in front of him. Trent knows Brock's normal body language well enough to realize the movement is an attempted counterbalance to the discomfort. It's much like Jason's constant fidgeting, but coming from Brock, it feels wrong.

"Do you need to be done?" Trent asks, a part of him starting to hope he'll say yes. "I can dose you up and we can take over – get you out of here. You've already done more than I expected."

"Not yet."

It's stated simply, and it's the first real acknowledgement from the younger man that he knows he isn't going to be able to walk all the way out under his own steam.

"Brock, I need you to tell me when –"

"I know. I will," he says, turning his head to look at Trent. "Not yet."

He says it with emotion and conviction, and his eyes say _please, trust me_.

So Trent does.

When they start back up again, they're moving more slowly. But Trent feels like they've come to an agreement of sorts. That the weight of the decisions that need to be made don't rest exclusively on him. He trusts that Brock is going to know when he's reached his limit. And that gives him a new sense of resolve and determination.

"Can you cut it out?" Clay asks, from where he's now following just behind Brock opposite of Trent, ready to support him as needed. "If it comes to that?"

Trent nearly chokes on his tongue when he realizes what their rookie is suggesting.

"No, absolutely not," he says, imagining the horror of trying to perform surgery like that deep in the jungle. "And it doesn't matter anymore. His actual appendix is the least of his troubles now. It's ruptured. That means bacteria is spreading inside. He's already in bad shape, but if that spreads to his blood…"

He stops himself because he doesn't want to think about it. He just wants to keep moving.

#####

They reach an area where they can get a good signal for their sat phone. Brock lies down to rest while Trent steps away to make the call and some of the others filter water from a nearby stream to replenish their dwindling supply.

Monero answers the call and Trent explains the situation in as much detail as he can manage, not wanting to miss anything that might be important for the medical advisors. It only takes a few minutes for the return call to come in, and it's Davis this time, sounding concerned but focused. Hearing her voice tethers Trent back to the real world. It reminds him there's more out there than this damn jungle they're trapped in.

"Get him out as quickly as you can," is the simple instruction.

Trent's torn between feeling grateful that they're on the right path, and anger that there's nothing else he can do – some bit of wisdom or instruction he hadn't thought of.

When he helps Brock to his feet to continue on, he can tell there isn't much left in him. He staggers, and if Trent and Sonny weren't there to hold him upright, he'd probably topple over.

"Little more," Brock says under his breath as he works to steady his balance.

Trent isn't sure if he means there's a little more to go or that he can continue on for a little more, but he lets it go. He and Sonny follow along at the slow pace Brock is able to maintain, hands ready to reach out and steady him each time he falters.

#####

Darkness is just beginning to fall when Brock finally stumbles for the last time.

"Come on, buddy," Sonny encourages, just as he's done for the last few hours. "You've got this."

"I can't," is the quiet reply from where Brock is hunched over, arms shaking and hands digging painfully into his knees.

Trent crouches down in front of him. He doesn't need to take his temperature to know his fever is raging. He can see it in the pallor of his skin, only broken by the high spots of color on his cheeks. His teeth are chattering, and there's a glassy sheen to his eyes that makes him look like he's five years old.

"Done?" Trent asks, and Brock nods his head without hesitation.

And that's it.

Trent instructs the rest of the guys to put a litter together as he gently helps Brock down to the ground.

"Sorry," the younger man says, as Trent reaches for his wrist, not surprised to find his increased heart rate.

"Nothing to be sorry for. Let us take over now, okay?"

"K," he says quietly and closes his eyes as Trent pulls another auto-injector from his pack.

The next few moments are spent getting Brock settled, and then the rest of them take a couple minutes to hydrate and eat to gather some strength. It's quiet. They're all exhausted, and the task ahead of them seems impossibly daunting. They have to carry their sick friend, in the dark, knowing that the amount of time it takes them is directly correlated to his chances of recovery. But even facing that challenge, Trent can see reflected in his teammates' eyes the absolute determination he feels within himself. They'll do whatever they need to do to give Brock the best chance possible.

#####

The night feels longer than any Trent has experienced before. They fall into a rotation – two carrying the litter at a time, switching every 30 minutes or so.

Trent's arms feel like jelly, and he can see the others shaking as they work to carry their brother to safety. But no one ever complains. Instead, they encourage each other on steadily.

Brock is in and out of consciousness, and Trent keeps him drugged up enough so he isn't in excruciating pain. Giving him that break from the agony makes every bit of effort they have to put into carrying him completely worth it.

They continue on, mostly quietly, completely focused on the task at hand.

But the quiet allows Trent too much time to think about everything that could still go wrong. He wonders if he's done enough. If there's something he missed along the way.

Even if they got Brock to a hospital right now, is it too late? Is the damage already done? Will he just become septic and die after everything they've tried to do for him? After everything he did to help himself?

And what would life be like without Brock Reynolds in it?

It's too hard to imagine.

This man who he's grown so close to over a relatively short period of time is more of a brother than a blood brother could ever be. His calm, steady presence is something Trent has grown accustomed to - something he takes great comfort in. It's a nice counterbalance to the egos and emotions that often run high among the team.

Trent wonders if they've taken Brock for granted. Not his actual ability – they all know how talented he is. But his even temper and self-sufficiency mean he might sometimes be overlooked. They all know a hungry Sonny is a bear to be around, so they make sure he's fed. Ray grumbles if his opinion isn't taken into consideration, so they carve out the time to hear him out.

Trent can't think of a similar scenario where they always make sure Brock is happy. The squeaky wheel on Bravo gets the grease, and Brock is never a squeaky wheel.

Trent decides right then to do a better job of reminding Brock how important he is, not letting everything else get in the way of thanking Bravo 5 for being a good teammate and friend.

The thought of losing that relationship is unbearable. It can't happen. Brock won't be taken out by something as simple and mundane as appendicitis. He's endured horrific war zones and impossible firefights. He's dodged bullets and bombs and falling buildings. His own body isn't going to be the thing that kills him. Trent refuses to allow it. He felt pressure before, but that was nothing compared to now – they're in the final stretch and Brock is relying on Trent completely to deliver him to the help he needs.

"Hey, kid. You okay?" Jason's concerned voice filters back from where their team leader is carrying the head of the litter.

Trent's steps falter. He can't handle something being wrong with Clay right now. They're already stretched too thin.

But when he looks up, Jason isn't talking to Clay. He's talking to Brock.

The younger man is moving restlessly on the litter and Trent turns on his headlamp to get a good look at him. His eyes are wide, darting around in the dark. His hair is plastered to his forehead, but he seems to have stopped actively sweating.

"Are we home now?" he asks, and there's a weak shudder to his voice that raises the hair on Trent's arms.

The fever is clearly surging through him and his pulse flutters rapidly beneath Trent's fingers when he gently takes hold of his wrist.

"Not yet," Jason answers soothingly. "We're on our way. We'll be there soon."

"Cerberus," Brock suddenly says, glazed eyes searching around the area but not actually focusing on anything. "Where is he?"

"He's not here with us, Brock." Sonny replies, and Trent can hear a shake in his voice as well. "He got to take this one off, the lucky bastard. He's back at the kennel in VaBeach. Probably lazing around and dreaming of chasing down those nasty bad guys."

"Oh," Brock says, and his voice is small and soaked with confusion. "I don't know…"

"It's okay," Trent assures, sweeping the curls away from his eyes. "Don't worry about it. Just rest for now."

And he does, drifting off again.

"Damn it," Jason grumbles. "We shouldn't even be here!"

Trent can't argue with that. 'Unfair' isn't a word he uses very often, especially related to what they do. By virtue of signing up for this life they all know they're taking extraordinary risks. And he carries the philosophy that sometimes shit happens and there's not much you can do about it – the control comes in how you react to a situation.

But this isn't something they ever could have expected, and Brock doesn't deserve any of it. The op never should have been assigned to them in the first place. And now they're forced to watch their brother suffer – pain visible in every inch of his body, fear lurking underneath his quiet strength, his confusion and vulnerability evident as the infection and exhaustion take hold. Everything about it is so utterly _wrong_, and there's nothing they can do to make it better for him.

Trent wants to shout to the whole world how unfair all of this is. But it wouldn't do any good, so he does the only thing he can do. He encourages his team to keep moving, with the single-minded objective of saving their friend.

#####

Time blurs. Trent's entire focus becomes about monitoring Brock and putting one foot in front of the other. The whole team seems to pick up the pace as the night wears on, knowing that they're _so close_, but also running out of time.

When the sun starts to rise, they're nearly there. Distance can finally be measured in miles instead of tens of miles. Jason asks if they need a break, but everyone insists on continuing on. They end is in sight.

They're able to call in again to give a status and location update, but they never stop moving. Brock is completely asleep now. He has been for hours. From exhaustion? Infection? The drugs? Something worse? Trent's not sure, and he doesn't allow himself time to dwell on it. His friend is breathing, and that's really all he can ask for right now. There's nothing else he can do for him.

Trent thinks Blackburn and Davis are a mirage at first when they appear through the trees in the distance, less than a mile from their exit. He blinks his eyes several times to clear the image away, but they seem to be real, moving toward the guys as they continue to trudge onward.

Nothing is said as they approach. The five healthy members of Bravo team are too drained to even form words.

"Put these on," Blackburn says. He drops a duffel overflowing with civilian clothes at their feet as they gently set the litter down. "You're a group of American adventure hikers. We have documents to back it up. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes."

Trent hadn't even considered how they were going to explain their presence in Brazil. Brock needs surgery urgently. There's no time to fly him back to the states, so a local hospital is required. As is so often the case, Trent's forever grateful to Blackburn and Davis for always being mindful of the details and handling things with speed and efficiency.

The team works together with shaking arms to get Brock changed first. Trent can see the alarm on Eric and Lisa's faces when they look at their ill teammate. He imagines he'd have the same reaction if he was looking at him for the first time. Brock looks like he's on death's door, and Trent fights down a sudden surge of shame at delivering him to Blackburn in such a condition.

"Go," Trent says as soon as they're done getting Brock ready, "take him."

"You sure?" Eric asks, realizing that means none of the guys will be able to travel with him to the hospital.

"Yeah, go," Trent says with regret. He knows Brock can't spare the time it's going to take them to get changed. And they're so exhausted, they're moving too slowly at this point. "Please hurry. He needs every minute he can get."

The remaining Bravo members collapse on the ground as they watch Blackburn and Davis carry their teammate away. They take several minutes to just breathe, some of them sitting and some completely sprawled out. As happy as Trent is that Brock is on his way to the help he so desperately needs, it feels like a limb has been ripped away. The team would never be the same without Bravo 5.

Time passes. Maybe five minutes, maybe fifteen.

Jason eventually groans and shifts up to his knees.

"Okay, let's get moving," he says, rallying the group. "We need to be there for our boy."

#####  
#####

Brock floats.

He knows he has a body, but he doesn't really feel it. And he's perfectly okay with that.

The absence of sensation – of _pain_ – is euphoric.

He lets full awareness wash over him slowly, in its own time. He intuitively knows he shouldn't be in any hurry to lose the pleasant drug haze that envelops his brain.

As sounds and smells begin to take shape around him, he has the distinct feeling that this isn't the first time he's come close to scratching the surface of consciousness – that he may have even breached it a couple times.

He wants to sink back into the darkness but his mind won't cooperate, doggedly becoming aware of life around him – a distant conversation, the squeak of rubber on linoleum, the unnatural smell of plastic mixed with disinfectant, a tickle under his nose, the tightening squeeze of a cuff around his arm. It all drags him inexorably to wakefulness.

He finally gives in to the inevitable and cracks his eyes open, staring at the pale blue wall in front of him as they adjust to the light. He's not sure how much time passes before he summons the energy to look around the space. It's fairly typical as far as hospital rooms go, but it's the other occupants that draw his attention.

Trent is curled in a chair immediately to his left, Clay and Sonny on a couch/bed hybrid in the corner across the room. They're all sound asleep. There's an interior hallway window to his left, and through the blinds he can see Jason and Ray talking animatedly to a man wearing blue scrubs.

He wonders how long they've all been here. They're in civilian clothing and seem to be clean. And they're clearly exhausted. Brock doesn't remember how he got to the hospital. Or how he got out of the jungle. But he knows these men – his brothers – made it happen.

The blood pressure cuff tightens again, drawing his attention down to his body, where there are IV lines in each of his arms. He's in a hospital gown and the sheets are pulled up to his chest. He's in no hurry to take a peek at the damage they're covering. He's sure he'll feel it soon enough.

There's a small stuffed dog tucked into the crook of his right elbow. It's a pink poodle with a tuft of rainbow hair atop its head and it's wearing a little hospital gown with a butterfly print. Cerberus would be offended, and Brock knows he'll greatly enjoy the 30 seconds it will take him to rip it to shreds. An unexpected chuckle bursts forth at the thought, and he regrets it immediately as he feels the first twinge in his belly.

"Hey," comes Trent's sleep-gruff voice as he unfolds with a groan.

When Brock connects with his gaze, he's momentarily taken aback. The man looks wrecked. There are bags beneath his blood-shot eyes, and he looks like he's aged 10 years. It reminds him of when Nate died.

Brock forces a small smile, wanting to wipe the concerned frown from Trent's face.

"How do you feel?" the medic asks.

"Amazing," Brock replies, smile completely genuine now.

Trent coughs out a laugh. "Yeah, well, I don't think that's gonna last. They spent a lot of time in there cleaning you out. You have a significant recovery ahead of you."

"Don't think it can be any worse than being out there."

Brock feels his anxiety pick up just thinking about the torturous ordeal that was the last few days. The unrelenting flames that licked up through his body. Trying to relax around the pain so he could keep going – so it wouldn't consume him completely. The feeling of being completely stuck – _trapped_. Knowing he had hours of torment ahead of him without an end in sight. That does things to your mind, and it's a trauma he won't be able to forget any time soon.

_It's over_, he reminds himself, before the memories have a chance to sweep him away.

"Thanks for getting me out," he finally says.

"You got yourself out," Trent replies, leaning forward in the chair. "Seriously Brock, you were… incredible. I don't think I could have held out that long. You saved yourself."

Brock doesn't know what to say to that, so his eyes flit away to the other side of the room where Clay and Sonny are still sleeping. He remembers flashes of them from out in the jungle - worried eyes and encouraging words and physical support when he faltered.

He shifts his gaze out the window again to see Jason and Ray are now talking quietly together, leaning heavily against the wall.

"Is Jason in trouble?" he asks, suddenly remembering why they were in Brazil in the first place. "For not finishing the op?"

"No, of course not," Trent scoffs. "Do you really think they'd expect him to leave you out there like that? Or that he would even if they did? Especially on a throwaway run?"

Of course Brock doesn't actually think Jason would leave him out there in that condition. But he also remembers the heightened panic he felt when he realized he was going to be responsible for a failed mission. It clouded his mind, made him question everything. It's hard to just wash that away.

Trent clearly takes his silence as insecurity, and he leans even closer to the bed, meeting Brock's eyes directly.

"You know Jason Hayes better than that," he says firmly, almost angrily. "You know all of us better than that. There were no other lives at stake, Brock. Only yours. That decision was a no brainer."

Brock nods. "I'm just sorry you guys had to go through all of that to get me out. It couldn't have been easy."

Trent leans back again with a heavy sigh.

"Let me ask you something," he says. "If the roles had been reversed - if it had been Jason this happened to? Or Clay? Or me? Would you have done the same for us?"

"Of course!"

"I know you would. So why do you question us doing it for you? Why is it different?"

Brock doesn't have an answer for that, and he doesn't think Trent expects one. He gives a slight nod in acknowledgement anyway. He knows it doesn't make sense. And if he can't understand it about himself, he can't expect Trent to.

They sit in a comfortable quiet for a few minutes and Brock is just starting to drift off when Trent speaks up again.

"I wish you'd said something sooner."

Brock's sluggish brain works to catch up.

"Did you know?" Trent questions when he doesn't say anything. "That it was serious?"

"No."

"Brock…"

"_No_," he says as firmly as he can. "I thought I was just sick. A stomach bug or something. Honest."

"Okay, I believe you," Trent says, scrubbing his hand down his face. "When I think about what could have happened if we'd kept going – if we didn't realize what was going on and turn back when we did…" His voice fades out and his eyes go a bit distant. They look haunted, and Brock starts to truly realize how traumatic all of this was for his friend as well. Probably for the others too. He was so overwhelmed by his own misery at the time that he didn't really register it, but he does know they were there for him every step of the way, desperately concerned about his wellbeing. And he knows how he would have felt if it had been one of his brothers in trouble.

"Sorry," he says automatically, and he regrets it immediately. He knows it isn't what Trent wants to hear.

"Stop it," is the expected reply. "I don't ever want to hear you apologize for being sick. Or injured. Got that? It's not your fault."

Trent seems frustrated, and Brock has to bite back another apology. Before he can come up with something to say instead, Trent's continuing on.

"And you know what? Even if it was your fault – if you did something stupid or made a wrong move and got hurt? It wouldn't make a difference. I'd still do everything possible to help you. The others would too."

"Well, it is your job," Brock says with a half-smile.

"Don't do that," Trent shakes his head, and he looks sad. "Don't try to diminish your importance to me. You aren't allowed to do that. Sure it's my job, but more importantly, it's about _you_. You were in pain and in trouble, and I couldn't do anything about it and…"

The sentence fades away, and Trent looks like he's struggling to find the right words.

He runs his hands through his hair with a low growl before continuing. "Do you have any idea how scared I was out there? How it felt to know you needed help so badly and I couldn't get it for you? It's the most helpless I've ever felt."

He leans forward again, pinning Brock with his eyes.

"That's not just because you're my teammate and it's my job to look after you. It's because you're my _friend_ and I love you. Seeing you in pain like that hurt me physically, and making you continue on through it is probably the hardest thing I've ever had to force myself to do."

Brock feels a lump rapidly forming in his throat and he has to blink to keep the rising emotion contained. Trent has never spoken quite so openly and affectionately with him before – it's just not the way any of them operate – and Brock is incredibly touched.

"And I know all of that is true for the other guys too," Trent continues. "Man, I thought Sonny was gonna strangle me at one point for not giving you meds, because he couldn't stand seeing you like that either."

As if on cue, the Texan snuffles from where he's still asleep on the couch in the corner, causing both men to chuckle.

It breaks the tension slightly and Trent sighs, sinking fully back into the chair again.

"Please don't discount that level of caring," he says, and it sounds like a plea. "It isn't fair to me. Or them. But mostly, it isn't fair to you. It robs you of the absolute knowledge that we'll be there with you through anything. Have your back always. That you're an essential and vital part of this team. This _family_."

"I know that," Brock says. "I do."

It's true, and he has a hard time explaining where his insecurity comes from. "I just doubt myself sometimes," he says quietly.

"I know you do. And I know this team can be a lot, and that can be hard. Sometimes it is for me too. But you matter, Brock. More than you'll ever know. I'm not sure we've all done a good enough job of showing you that. That's on us, and it's going to change."

Brock's not sure that's true. The last few days did a damn good job of showing him how much he means to these men. But he didn't need that proof. He already knew. They've shown him repeatedly since the moment he became a part of Bravo. He just needs to let himself accept it, and that's something he commits to working on.

"We all carry each other," Trent says. "Whether that's literally or figuratively. It's how we work. Why we work. Every piece is necessary and equal."

Brock nods on a yawn, "I know." He feels his eyes starting to droop.

"Get some sleep. We aren't going anywhere. Jason made it clear to Blackburn we aren't flying out until you can too."

Brock smiles. It doesn't surprise him one bit.

Before he lets his eyes close, he takes one more look around the room. He thinks about his friends and their determination to be present for him, even if they're tired and uncomfortable and just want to go home. Knowing they'll be here with him for as long as it takes fills him with warmth, and he lets himself drift away on the pleasant feeling.

Sometimes Brock feels like he's invisible. But only sometimes.

Because most of the time he feels like he's the luckiest guy in the world.

* * *

**If you got this far, thank you!**

**I know a 13,000+ word story focused on Brock and Trent and barely featuring the other guys isn't exactly the way to get a lot of readers in this fandom. But I have received some truly amazing comments on this story, and I appreciate every one of you who took the time to let me know you were here reading. Thanks so much! ❤️**

**And now, finally, back to finishing up You Will Be Found.**


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